A Queen And Her Knight
by Stamina Overlook
Summary: Christine is the new queen of her country, and her new life is extremely stressful. Luckily, she has a faithful knight at her side to help her relax.


**Author's Note: Welp, here we are. This is my first smut piece, the codpiece phic I've promised. While in development, it suddenly grew into something much, much bigger than a simple smutty one-shot, so expect more chapters in the future.**

* * *

_**A Queen And Her Knight**_

It was almost noon.

The radiant sun was mercilessly burning the lands with the white hot intensity of its searing light.

The city's streets were filled with dust and smoke; however, in spite of that, it was brimming with life. It was very easy to lose oneself in this enormous crowd of meddling merchants, rushing pedestrians, troubled mothers and their crying children, yelling riders and travelling pilgrims.

In the distance, amidst the roar of the town, a sonorous shout rang out, and out of nowhere appeared a group of royal equestrians, all in dashing, sparkling armour. White mares beneath them buckling their heads and neighing, the knights were holding their lances ready, their noble and intimidating appearance making the crowd scatter.

Behind them, harnessed by a troika of snow white horses, trailed a large brougham of light wood, decorated with lush floral ornaments of gold leaf; on its door was inscribed the monogram of the royal family.

"The Queen is here! All hail the Queen!"

The brougham rolled onto the town's main square, surrounded by its entourage. With a squeak, it stopped, and one of the royal guards - apparently, the captain, for he was covered in a fancy suit of armour with floral-styled golden tracery, padded with red velvet - dismounted and, holding his shield, approached the brougham's left door after gesturing some orders to his subordinates.

The city square was full of people at this point, who were staring and gawking with apprehension and trepidation at the brougham, forming a large but tight circle around the vehicle.

The royal guard captain opened the door and bowed to whomever was inside. A tiny figure appeared from the cool shadows of the brougham, and the Lady of the Country stepped into the light.

She was beauty itself. Her fair, curly hair was neatly pinned into an elaborate bun on the top of her head, decorated with a crown and a handful of small pins, whose shining diamonds were sparkling in the sun. Her face was like that of a goddess - for, surely, only a goddess could have such perfect, radiant skin, such bright eyes of the colour of the daytime sky, framed with long eyelashes, such pink, soft lips and such rounded, rosy cheeks. The elegant ivory column of her neck was decorated with a choker of pearls, and the long, light-blue gown she wore accentuated her narrow waist, left her shoulders and arms uncovered and trailed behind her. She was perfection incarnate; however, her gaze was clouded by sorrow, and a small wrinkle could be seen between her slightly furrowed elegant, fair brows.

The knight at her side offered her his hand, covered by a large iron gauntlet; she didn't hesitate to take it and helped herself down onto the paving stones.

There was a loud boo from someone in the crowd, and, slowly, more voices joined in, hissing and jeering at their new queen.

The captain of the royal guard looked around and began leading his queen to the gates of her residence, the path cleared by the other knights.

One person in the crowd threw a stone. He was immediately apprehended by a few men; however, more people joined in, throwing stones and profanities and curses at her.

One stone landed at her feet, and she faltered in her step, wringing her hands in anguish. Her knight stepped forward, grabbed his blood red cape by its corners and raised it around her, holding up his shield as well to protect her from the onslaught and obstruct her small figure from the view.

The stones were hitting the shield and the knight's armour with loud bangs, and she flinched and winced at each sound, wrapping her thin arms around herself. Her knight was looking down at her, his eyes two distant golden dots, face entirely obscured by the helmet.

Together they reached the massive gates, cast iron bars decorated with golden peaks at their ends, and stepped onto the sand of the wide path that led to an enormous castle of grey stone and black marble.

The gates closed behind them, and they were approached by a handful of servants; some were looking at her with austerity and no mercy, and others - with pity and fake sympathy.

Christine hated those looks on their faces.

* * *

Christine was the only rightful heir to the throne, the only member of the royal family remaining. Her mother, the queen, had died in childbirth, and as soon as her death had been confirmed, the parliament had appointed minister Valerius as a regent for the little Christine. He had made sure the kingdom was safe until Christine was of age, and his wife, Madame Valerius, had been the only mother Christine had known.

Aside from the guidance of kind and generous Madame Valerius, Christine had been raised by an infinite scauldron of nannies and teachers who had made sure that the girl had received a proper education in all fields. Her passions had always laid in music, however, no matter how much her mentors had tried to redirect her attention to science or humanistic studies.

That music ran in her bloodline.

Her late father had been a simple man, a travelling musician. He had met her mother while she had been on a trip to the countryside, and they had immediately started an affair. Her mother had already been pregnant when she had announced her marriage to the travelling composer.

The whole country had looked down upon it, and Christine's father had never been treated kindly. He had always remained a prince consort, and had died of illness a few years ago.

Some rumors had suggested that he had been poisoned.

At least her father had been there to see her coronation ceremony. When Christine had turned sixteen, she had accepted the crown and all the responsibilities that came with it and had shown strength more impressive than had been expected of a tiny young girl like her.

Minister Valerius had been so proud of his protegée.

He had been assassinated shortly after in his private residence. The whole country had grieved along his wife and Christine.

As for Christine, her rule had started with war being declared upon her kingdom by the neighboring country. That war was still ongoing, and her armies were failing on the frontlines. Furthermore, a drought had stricken her lands that year, and whole villages were dying out because of hunger.

The people had to hate someone for all the misfortunes. So they hated their new queen for it all.

* * *

She turned to face her servants, her mouth set in a grim line as she opened the luscious fan, made of feathers, that was hanging on her arm. "We are glad to meet you. It is a pleasure to finally arrive here." She eyed a maid and nodded at her. "If you please, escort Us to our private quarters. All others may be relieved of their duty for now."

The servants bowed and left, only the maid remaining to show her the way.

The captain of the royal guard looked hesitant, but Christine silently motioned for him to follow her.

The three made their way across the lush front garden, full of beautiful flowers and fountains, into the castle and stepped into the front lobby which was decorated in dark marble and red carpetry. Christine let out a relaxed breath as the cool air hit her face and closed her fan, observing as the knight at her side gave his shield and his sword to a page boy. She could only imagine how relieved he was. He was probably sweating profusely beneath that fancy armour of his.

They were led by the maid through a network of vast corridors to the royal private quarters, two massive doors indicating that they had arrived to their destination.

Christine nodded to the maid. "You are free to go," she said softly as the girl curtsied. "Please, bring dinner to my quarters when it is time." She placed a golden coin into the young maid's palm. "A double portion. Make sure that nobody sees you."

The girl's eyes widened at the sight of the coin, and she gasped and gaped as if she had lost the ability to speak.

Christine smiled at the girl and waved her hand to the corridor. "Go, go, go. You deserve this."

The maid curtsied once more and rushed away, pressing her palm with the golden coin to her heart. Her family would be well fed tonight.

The knight at Christine's side straightened himself and bowed. "Your Majesty," uttered his sonorous, rich voice, with subtle sultry intonation as the two words rolled off his tongue… A voice unlike any other.

Christine was quite fond of it.

The knight turned to leave in a flourish of his red cape, but Christine stopped him and curled her delicate finger at him, gesturing for him to come with her.

He exhaled and could do nothing else but follow.

He opened the heavy doors for her as she strode into her private quarters and threw her fan onto the vanity table.

The knight, not daring to move, dithered in his place next to the door.

"Your Majesty… Is there anything you require from me?" He asked in that deep velvety voice of his.

"You should know well to call me Christine by now," she answered, taking off her jewelry as nonchalantly as if there wasn't a seven feet tall man in a heavy suit of armour in her room.

"...Christine," he corrected himself and looked around. "This is highly improper…"

She lowered her small crown into its velvet case on the vanity and finally turned to him, fury visible in those clear blue eyes of hers. "I do not care about propriety, Erik," she hissed. "I am the _queen_; I decide what is proper and what is not in this kingdom."

The knight, Erik, was obviously taken aback by her sudden words. He took a few moments to compose himself. "That… is quite true." He let out a small chuckle. "You have never been fond of _traditions_. Your word is the law now."

"Yes," she nodded, "and I say that you remain here and do not go."

She slowly approached him, movements steady and deliberate. She could feel his intense gaze on her, even though his face was completely obscured by his helmet.

She reached up and, gently taking his visor in her small hands, lifted it to uncover his face.

It was as horrible as she remembered it to be. His skin was deathly pale and covered in ghastly scars, and his nose was absent, a gaping hole in its stead. His golden eyes were set deep in his skull, and his cheeks were sunken...

He looked like a dead man alive.

Christine never flinched. It still surprised him, even after all this time after she had first seen him and slowly come to accept him.

She never told him, but she had come to love this face.

She put her arms down and stared up at him. "Your Queen is very stressed today, Erik." She lowered her eyes, and her gaze fell onto his prominent codpiece.

It was an essential part of his armour. Its end was wider than the main part and curled upwards, and it was decorated with tracery, just as all other parts of the uniform.

A small smile graced her lips.

"You know what you must do."

How could he deny such an angelic creature? His throat suddenly felt dry, and he could only nod.

She beamed, knowing that she had won.

She took his hand and led him, like a lamb, to a seat cushioned with velvet. She pushed him down to sit onto it, and he lowered his heavy figure onto the soft surface, armour clanking. His golden eyes never left her face.

She lowered her hand and boldly grasped his codpiece, not quite able to reach fully around its metal girth. His breath hitched, and he dug his metal fingers into the soft material of the pillow on the seat. The Queen smirked and moved her hand up and down, mimicking the stroking motion. Ah. So she would _torture_ him.

He didn't feel anything, _couldn't_ feel anything through the metal; however, his imagination was running rampant, and this was a far too explicit sight. He felt himself harden and twitch against the iron confines.

In a swift and fluent movement, she raised her leg and straddled him, and he gasped at the sudden feel of her warm weight on his lap as her arms came around his armoured neck.

Christine leaned in to his face and kissed him, the top of her haircut pressing into the edge of his raised visor. He eagerly reciprocated the gesture, pressing his thin, nearly non-existent lips to her lush and warm ones, losing himself in the exquisite sensation of her mouth on his, as his hands found purchase on her hips.

He felt her shift and buck and heard her moan into the kiss; his eyes flew open, and it took him a few seconds to realize that she was _rubbing herself against his codpiece._

Blood rushed to his head; he suddenly felt dizzy, and he must have turned quite an unbecoming hue of red, because Christine giggled and then pressed herself harder against the metal, eyes fluttering back in obvious delight.

He could only sit there, sweating profusely in his armour, and watch her as she pleasured herself on the hard iron of his codpiece through all the layers of her clothing; his hands, covered by heavy metal gauntlets, gripped her hips tightly, but she didn't seem to mind; Christine's head fell back, uncovering the white column of her neck - he never hesitated to suckle. His breathing became laboured, and as did hers as she sighed and gasped and moaned into the air between them; it was permeated with crackling tension. At some point — he himself could not tell when — his hips began to move against his will, bucking into her, armour clanking, the desire to drive into her - claim her, pierce her - too much for him to remain sane, and yes, _yes:_ he _could_ feel something; he could feel her heat and the hot metal rub ever so slightly against his desperate wet, dripping tip as she pressed herself hard against it, and he could almost remember the feel of her nether lips parting, the feel of her wet cunt accepting his length and spasming around it as it brought her to the brink of something extraordinary, as he made stars explode behind her eyes.

They moved together now faster, — yes, — faster, pressing harder, bucking further, until, at last, Christine's breath hitched, and she emitted a loud, strangled moan as her whole body trembled and fell apart atop his lap.

She then bonelessly slumped against his plate-covered chest, sighing in satisfaction.

Erik gritted his teeth and pursed his lips, forcing himself to loosen his hold on her hips. He felt overly warm and wet and so incredibly _hard_ there, inside his codpiece.

Christine looked up at him to survey his stony expression, and, whatever she saw there, pleased her immensely, because she gifted him with her most radiant smile.

He would kill thousands of men for that smile. His expression softened.

She shifted her hips, stretched her spine and climbed off of his lap. "Let me help you take off the armour. You must be like a boiled chicken in there."

Indeed, he thought, a boiled chicken. His need had slightly diminished at this point, though he was pretty sure he'd have to clean the insides of his codpiece later.

He tried to relax against the seat. He knew that what had just transpired was just a little warm-up for what would come later.

She started with his legs.

Upon her motion, he raised his legs and she captured them, unstrapping the sabatons and letting them fall onto the ground. She made sure to prolong this exquisite torture, making a show of finding each leather strap and undoing it, while groping all over his cloth-covered muscles that twitched beneath her touch. Her possessive touch was invading, and yet, he basked in it. He had been denied these things for too long to ever think of complaining.

She moved up to his calves and took off the greaves that covered them. After a second of contemplation, she leaned down and tickled behind his knee; his leg buckled against his will, followed by him making the most scrunched face ever.

It amused her, and she laughed her chiming laughter; Erik, embarrassed, took the visor and lowered it, obscuring his face.

At that point she took off the kneecaps — the poleyns — and moved onto his thighs, which were covered by embroidered metal pieces, cuisses, from the front and from the back.

Her hands travelled to his groin, and he felt himself stiffen, lifting the visor to see everything better. The vixen just barely caressed his metal codpiece and moved to pass her palms over his hips to unstrap and take off the faulds.

All of his lower half was now free from the armour… Except for the most _core_ part of himself. His codpiece, which was attached to his leather belt, still remained on, and the woman was unabashedly staring at it.

At last, she grinned and grasped it again, studying its shape and the intricate tracery on its surface, not paying attention to the gasps and groans that came from somewhere above.

In one perfect, cruel moment, her lips parted, and her little pink tongue darted out, giving the warm metal a small lick. Now her eyes fluttered up to survey his reaction, and she was pleased to see that on his face was an expression of utter shock, anger, and, most importantly, sheer animalistic _lust._

Slowly, eyes never looking away from his own, she took the tip of his codpiece into her mouth, and he gasped and shuddered as he realized just _what_ she had been trying to accomplish.

She was _winding him up._

Letting out a hum of appreciation, the vibration being _almost_ enough to tip him over the edge, she took his codpiece out of her mouth and grinned at him.

"I think I will leave this on for now," she purred, patting the damned thing, as his cock twitched and throbbed inside of it. "You do look so imposing with it on."

She stood up and moved to take off his heavy gauntlets, carefully sliding them off his hands and then letting them drop into the floor in a cacophony of clanking as they hit the other armour pieces already scattered all around the floor.

The embroidered vambrace, couter and rerebrace pieces that covered his forearms, elbows and upper arms respectively all met the same fate, as she groped and squeezed at his thin arms and undid all the straps that held his armour together. His pauldrons, helmet, and bevor soon joined them.

All this time he'd been watching her with an unreadable expression, with such intense hunger in his eyes that it made goosebumps rise on her skin, and she shivered in excitement. Her little plan was working.

Motioning for him to lean forward, she raised his hand and undid all the straps that held together his breastplate - at first on his right side, and then on his left. The front part of it finally gave way, and, with a grunt, she lowered it onto the floor and straightened herself… only to find the other part of the breastplate left forgotten on the seat and Erik gone without a trace.

Suddenly, she felt a strong presence at her side, something looming over her, and a harsh, hot breath grazed her earlobe.

She froze, like a deer under a hunter's gaze.

Two strong hands with long, skeletal fingers grabbed her elbows and tugged her backwards until her back collided with his bony chest clad with soft cloth.

Her breath hitched: something _hard_ was pressing into her lower back — his codpiece? Yes, it must be it!

Thin, dry lips brushed her earlobe, another hot breath escaping through them. She whimpered.

"You must be _so_ proud of yourself," his amber voice hissed into her ear. "Your little plan was working…" The voice had a dangerous edge to it, as his fingers dug into the soft skin of her upper arms. "Do you really think your Erik is stupid? That he wouldn't notice?"

His teeth came down onto the crook of her neck, biting hard, and she cried out in indignation and surprise, all while he growled like an animal and passed his tongue over her inflamed skin, kissing and nibbling and licking.

"You are going to regret this, Your Majesty," he breathed and pressed his pointed knee between her thighs, the codpiece digging almost painfully into her coccyx.

She still couldn't see him, and, as his bony hands groped and grasped first at her stomach, then at her hips and her legs, lifting up her skirts, battling with her petticoats, she could only try to keep her breath steady and mentally prepare for whatever was to follow.

His nimble fingers swiftly found the edges of her stockings and traced the line where the soft cotton gave way to silky skin. She went limp at the exquisite sensation of his calloused fingertips slightly brushing against her upper thighs, almost tickling; strong arms supported her weight, not letting her collapse onto the lush carpets below.

Finally his hand found its way into the slit of her pantaloons, and a lone middle finger parted her nether lips to slide its cool, dry flesh over her feverishly hot, wet clit.

She gasped, and her legs gave way beneath her; she was firmly held in place, however, by one hand pressing into her rib cage, and another cupping her crotch; the latter let one of its devilish fingers slip _inside_.

Her arms flew upwards and wrapped around his neck, as she pressed her beetroot red cheek into the cool cloth of his black shirt, her breath quick and shallow, brimming with excitement.

In response to that, the finger inside her _curled_, pressing just in the _right_ spot to make her shiver and moan into his chest. A thoughtful hum was released into her earlobe, driving her nearly mad with the resulting vibration, and then the finger moved, brushing against _that_ spot again — and she shattered in his arms, crying out in pleasure.

Another hum was given at her unforeseen thrashing; she did not expect that his finger would never stop its ministrations, moving deep inside of her — in and out, in and out — coaxing another orgasm out of her. Prominent knuckles brushed at her entrance, as another hand moved from her ribcage to her left breast, finding its way into the cleavage of her dress and squeezing and pinching; she sobbed, gasped and clutched at his neck, toes curling in their silky prison — _Erik, no, Erik, stop, I- I need to rest, this is too much! _— he didn't listen, and, despite her feverish pleas, his thumb found purchase on the plump, sore pearl at the top of her cunt, mercilessly pressing and rubbing, as another bony finger joined in, together stretching and sliding deeper, deeper inside of her.

She thrashed in his hold, moaning both in delicious pain and delirious pleasure, unintentionally bucking her hips into his hand, feeling another wave building up, while his other hand worked on her nipple; another finger entered her, now three of them thrusting into her sore, weeping cunt. He angled them so the little finger, slick with her juices, was able to slide further down the cleft between her soft buttocks, pressing at her derriere entrance; her body screamed with sensation, each cell on fire, and, when his little finger found its way into the small tight hole, she wailed and broke apart once again, head lurching backwards as her whole being exploded like a supernova.

It lasted long, far longer than ever before, and Christine took her time to come down from her high, not minding the hungry pants and growls that were coming from somewhere behind and above her.

After a few seconds — or was it an eternity? — she noticed that those torturous fingers were gone, and her skirts brushed at her ankles again. With mortification, she heard Erik take something into his mouth and moan, slurping sounds ensuing as he, she realized, licked and sucked on the fingers that had just touched her.

She felt a wave of heat overcome her. He had _never_ been this forward. But then again, she herself had never been this forward, either.

"You taste so good," he breathed, licking each finger with the thick of his tongue, "I would like to have you for dinner instead of actual food."

Before she was able to give a gasp of indignation, she was swept up from the floor by a pair of wiry, strong arms and carried into the adjacent bedroom.

The large window was covered with heavy draperies, and the royal bed had curtains around it, granting them the much needed privacy. The room itself was quite spacious, and was completed in dark-red colours — divided, as the custom demanded, into male and female halfs.

Christine was lowered onto the bed; she raised her eyes to look up at Erik, who stood near the edge of the bed and whose expression was just as unreadable as before. No matter how hard she tried, she could not distinguish if he was mad with anger, with lust, or both.

Oh, but mad he was, of that she was certain, nervously capturing her lower lip between her teeth. Those golden eyes of his shone so furiously… She wasn't getting out of this so easily.

Out of the blue, his hands casually reached up to the wide leather strap that held his heavy metal codpiece in place, every movement slow and deliberate, watched by a pair of anxious eyes. He undid the clasps and took the item off, baring his long cock streaked with throbbing veins to her excited gaze.

One hand slid along the hard length - long, spindly fingers firmly wrapping around it and furiously pumping a few times; Christine whined and shifted on the cool sheets, aroused once again.

Suddenly, his hand left his erect member. The codpiece was unstrapped from the harness and discarded, thrown onto the floor, and he smacked his free palm hard with the leather, grasping it and tugging it sideways to showcase its tightness.

Christine gasped.

"Undress," the powerful Voice commanded with an authoritative, domineering tone that left no room for argument.

Christine felt dizzy with heat; her breath left her in short pants, and her tongue darted forward to lick her suddenly dry lips.

Her hands flew to her back, unfastening the lacings with shaking fingers; when she came to those that she couldn't reach by herself, she turned her back to Erik, and savoured the feeling as his deft fingers undid the lacing for her and yanked the bodice down, almost tearing it.

She wriggled out of the gown and threw it onto the floor.

Next came the corset; it was laced lower, so she was able to unfasten the garment herself. A couple of rehearsed tugs here and there, and the stiff fabric gave way. She let out a moan of relief as she felt her singer's lungs expand to their fullest potential.

She stood on her knees, facing him, and slid the petticoats down her thighs, shrugging them off and pushing them off the bed.

All this time his heated gaze never left her, roaming over her body and drinking in every inch of uncovered skin, and she felt her blood boil beneath that stare.

As her hands reached up to take off her chemise, one large, bony hand captured her wrist in a rigid grasp and tugged it away from the garment. Erik's eyes darted down to her hand as he leaned in and, after looking at the inside of her wrist for several long seconds, placed a kiss to the tender skin there and slid his tongue over it.

He raised his head again and brought their faces closer, aiming for her lips. She felt cool leather caress her bare thigh, and a wave of heat travelled through her, going straight to her nether regions, as she gasped into his mouth and by his shirtfront tugged him to her.

He loomed over her, pressing forward into her body, until her back came to rest on the sheets. As his tongue worked in her mouth, one gaunt palm found its way beneath her dainty knee and tickled, while the other hand slid the strap of cool leather between her legs, dangerously close to the apex of her thighs. She broke into breathless giggles, sometimes interrupted with sweet moans and anxious hitches of breath.

The leather touched her secret place, sliding along the wet, bright red folds of her, pressing into them with its wide harness, and Christine gasped into his mouth. A sinewy hand came up to her face and firmly grasped her jaw to tug her back into the kiss - his long, gangly fingers digging into the soft skin of her cheeks, as the leather continued its tortuous repetitive path up and down — up and down her cunt — rubbing directly and mercilessly at the plump pearl at the top of it. Each movement was deliberate, aimed to make her moan and seize and tremble in his arms — aimed to make her shatter as soon as possible.

His tongue danced in her mouth, plunging deep; he sucked, kissed and bit at her reddened lips, possessively holding her jaw as the wet leather was rubbing at her center in earnest now; and just then, _just then_ when she cried out in the approach of her crisis, the leather pulled away and delivered a sharp, hard _slap_ to her cunt, making pain and pleasure radiate from her core in intense waves that she could not handle; she was pushed by him onto the bed, tense thighs forced open, and the second slap was delivered with the leather harness that glistened, covered in her juices, and then came the third slap, and the fourth — each one stronger than the previous — brought down right onto her clit with unyielding precision — and, no matter how hard she thrashed, screamed, cried, and tried to get away, she could not; strong limbs pushed her down, and each stinging slap was punctuated with the wet sound of leather colliding hard with the angry red flesh of her cunt as Erik shouted something at her — yes, he was shouting something right into her face — but she could not hear the words, her mind aflame with pain and an intense, perverse type of pleasure, and after a particularly hard slap something _broke_ inside her. Her heels dug into the sheets, head lurching back, as she screamed her crisis and quivered as if in severe fever, hips bucking, cunt spasming hard in on itself as it spurted out precious droplets of her arousal. His arms snaking around her thighs, Erik leaned down and pressed his distorted mouth to her entrance, tongue lapping at her, determined to drink in every last drop.

It provided Christine with some leverage, and she made full use of it as her hips undulated into his face with abandon, and his bony fingers dug forcefully into the soft, pliant flesh of her thighs to make them stay in place as he licked and sucked at her cunt.

Christine was floating. She was only half-aware of the head between her legs, of the mouth pressed to her secret place, of the tongue that was still moving in it, parting the aching folds of her.

The head lifted, and through hooded eyes she saw his face, Erik's face, with its lower half completely smeared in her arousal. Her heart warmed at the sight.

He moved up and forward, his distorted face nearing hers. As he pressed another tender kiss to her lips, where she could certainly taste herself, his still throbbing, aching member brushed against her stomach, the smooth head leaving a small trail of wetness on her soft skin.

She broke the kiss, looking up at Erik with tentative eyes. He wiped at his chin, suddenly self-conscious. "Do- do you feel too sore, or-"

"Yes- yes, sore," she breathed, dropping her head back onto the pillows.

"I- I may have gone too hard on you," he murmured sheepishly.

Christine nodded with a tired smile. "I feel… exhausted. I feel exhausted and I am dead. It feels as if… as if I gave you my soul."

Erik's smile could only be described as entranced as he lifted his hand to gently trace a path on her cheek. "Your soul is very beautiful, my dear. No emperor has ever received so fair a gift."

Christine's smile widened, and she closed her eyes.

"Perhaps," continued his sweet, angelic voice, trailing a feather-light touch from her cheekbone to the shell of her ear. "Perhaps, you are willing to accept your Erik… somewhere else?"

She winced as she stirred, getting up. "Right, this is unfair to you. Come here." She moved to the side of the bed and patted the pillowcase. With a gulp, Erik moved to lay on the pillows and forced himself to relax. The tension in his frame was far too noticeable; Christine tsk-tsked her disagreement and crept closer, putting a small palm on his clothed thigh. He anxiously watched her every move.

He lay there, like a king, luxuriously draping his long, wiry limbs over the lush, oriental-styled pillows, as she put a hand on his engorged member — hard as the iron piece that had covered it before — and squeezed. His head rolled backwards; he emitted a long hiss and gave a moan of pleasure that made Christine's blush deepen and made all the small hairs on her body stand up.

She moved her hand up and down the long shaft, feeling the familiar texture and shape with contentment: here was that thick, throbbing vein, going from the base of his cock and disappearing halfway up to the tip; here was that small indent near the head where, if she pressed just so…

He cried out in a manner most arousing, and, lowering her lips to the smooth, desperately twitching head of his cock, she played him like a fine instrument, giving a lick there and sucking on velvety skin here, evoking the most fascinating and inveigling sounds from his golden throat as well as pleas to never stop. He called her the sweetest names as she cradled his heavy, tight sac in her small palm and massaged and fondled his testicles, and he felt as if they were ready to explode. One of his bony hands, and then the other one, found her head and fisted into her hair, and together they held onto her firmly as she bobbed her head up and down, tongue swirling around the immense girth, teeth grazing the hypersensitive skin.

At this point, his breath shifted, and he lifted his hips to pound into her, his movements erratic and unbridled. She braced herself, wincing slightly, feeling him going down her throat, and his cries of ecstasy were lost to the pounding of blood in her ears and the overwhelming, bitter taste of his seed on her tongue.

It leaked from her mouth, and she wiped her lips on the blanket before looking up at him; he was staring up into the ceiling of the canopy bed, trying to catch his breath. His eyes were rolled upwards and half-closed, golden irises shining in the dimness of the room.

Oh, how she loved those golden eyes. If only she could tell him, if only she was brave enough!

But Christine has always been, and remained, a coward.

He shifted on the sheets and tugged at her hair, coaxing her to move up to him. He reached for her lips, and their joining felt like something sacred, and, after the overwhelming intensity of the prior activities, the sheer tenderness and the pure love he poured into that kiss made her feel so, _so_ wretched, and she cried. She cried into his shoulder and felt like never stopping, and he whispered love confessions and gentle compliments into her ear, and it made her cry even harder.

* * *

They lounged around and ate supper together, murmuring sweet nothings and playfully putting nibbles of food into each other's mouths. They drank first-class wine from their golden goblets and kissed the taste from each other's lips. They sang and played music together, and they made love by the fire, limbs tangling, fingers entwining, sharing their breath and little moans and growls of desire, and when she felt the familiar warmth spread through her belly, — again and again — each time she sighed her satisfaction into his ear, pulling him closer, hands gently passing over the angry red marks she'd left on his scrawny back, tracing the prominent spine with her soft fingertips.

And he would tell her in that sweet, sweet voice of his that he loved her, that he adored her, and that he would never ever leave her, and she would cry again — precious tears leaking from her brilliant blue eyes — would hold him close, still cradling him between her thighs, and only when a bony palm would pass over her bare breast, grazing a pointed nipple, and a hot breath on her neck would send a jolt of pleasure through her, she would at last spill out the words, repeating them over and over like a sacred prayer, and though it seemed like blasphemy, she knew it was not when he raised his head and she saw tears in his eyes, those golden eyes that she knew she loved, and she would kiss these tears away, brush away the horrors and the insecurities that held them both back, and repeat her prayer again and again, a plea to their mutual sanity:

"I love you."


End file.
